


Burning Rubber

by JessieBlackwood



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Classic Cars, Driving, Greg is a good driver, M/M, Rupert Graves Birthday Auction 2019, driver assessment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-06-25 21:39:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19754305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessieBlackwood/pseuds/JessieBlackwood
Summary: Greg is asked by a friend to help with a driver training course for MI5 personnel. Mycroft has been sent for driving skills assessment. Is this the beginning of a beautiful friendship?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paia_Loves_Pie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paia_Loves_Pie/gifts).



> This is my contribution to the Rupert Graves Birthday Auction raising money for the Trussell Trust. Won by Paia_Loves_Pie. she gave me several prompts, among which was this one. Greg is an excellent driver, which Mycroft learns. I think bonus points were on offer for Greg in a leather jacket. This is far longer than intended, but that's my bad (or good, if you enjoy it) and I also think it begs another chapter too...

“You have done what?” Mycroft regarded his assistant over the rims of his half-glasses and frowned. She glanced across at him, put the last file away in the drawer and slid it shut. 

“Booked you in for your evaluations, sir, as we discussed a few days ago. Some of your reviews are overdue. An oversight because of your extended stay in Japan.…”

“Yes, I understand that, but which ones did you just mention?” 

Anthea fixed him with a vaguely exasperated look. “You already have your medical and psyche evaluations, so all that is required now are your firearms, self defence and driving…”

“That is what I thought you said. Driving? Since when have I needed driver assessment?”

“Since six months ago, sir. Came down from Langdale. They want to know that all employees can use defensive driving techniques when under threat.”

“You may not have noticed, but I do not drive,” Mycroft said with frosty sarcasm. Anthea didn’t even bat an eyelid.

“Of course not, sir,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “However, you are licensed to drive, and in the event of your driver being...incapacitated, the suggestion is that it would be appropriate for you to be able to take the wheel…”

“ _Take the wheel?_ ” Mycroft said slowly. “Exactly how is one supposed to take the wheel if one is in the back seat, separated by a privacy screen, not to mention being under fire?”

“I’m sure Langdale has good intentions, sir.”

“The road to Hell is paved with plenty of those,” Mycroft replied. 

“I believe in this case it is to comply with company insurance requirements, sir.”

“ _Company insurance?_ ” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “How tedious.”

“I think it ticks all the boxes for Human Resources, sir,” Anthea offered.

“God bless HR,” Mycroft murmured, his voice dry as Sahara sand, “because nobody else will.” He sighed. “Very well. We must appease the Gods of Personnel, I suppose. When am I to attend?”

**0000000**

“Luke? What’s up now, you tosser?” Greg chuckled into his phone. His old mate from Hendon, Luke Palmer, made a habit of never calling him unless he wanted something. Palmer had quit the force two decades ago, entering the murky world of personal security and close protection work. Now he ran his own business, offering accredited training in those same techniques, and providing competency assessment for insurance purposes. Occasionally, he called on Greg’s services on a freelance basis. 

“Greg, you wound me,” Luke replied, dramatically. “Calling to see if you’re okay, you sad bastard. I was going to suggest a catch up, go get a bevy sometime, you know?”

“Bollocks, mate,” Greg replied inelegantly, but without rancor. “You know I’m more than happy for a pint any time, but I know you too Bloody well, so come on, spill. What do you really want?” 

Luke sighed the sigh of the put-upon. “I’ve been stood up,” he said. 

“Well, a pint is one thing, but don’t expect me to go on a date with you,” Greg shot back. “You’re not my type, and anyway, I didn’t think you were that way inclined.”

“Fuck off, you wanker,” Luke said, choking with laughter. “I meant one of my trainers has backed out on me. I’m short an assessor. Then I remembered you had your A1 Assessors’ Award. Joe and I can cover the first few days next week, but we’ll struggle with the rest. So, are you busy?”

“Just wrapped a case last week, handed it to CPS on Friday. Attending court on Tuesday, but beyond that, I’m free for the foreseeable. I don’t doubt I can use up some of my vast lieu time.”

“Great..”

“So, which course?”

“Defensive driving. Right up your street, old son. I’ve got a group booked in from Thames House…”

“MI5? You training spooks now?”

“Not exactly,” Luke said. “They’re not actually active field operatives, but they’re still on the books. Some are higher up the pecking order, but there’s a few in IT and support services. They might not be putting themselves in harm’s way, but there’s still potential for them to be a target, so on the off-chance that the shit hits the fan, the powers that be want to know that their personnel are still capable of taking the wheel and getting themselves out of trouble, or at least to make the attempt.”

“I’m presuming they can actually drive.”

“Yeah, yeah, but my problem is there’s only one of them booked for defensive driving, and none of my other assessors are qualified in it. They’re all firearms and self defence. The course is two days for each attendee, certificated.”

“Special snowflakes, are they?” 

“I think they just want them processed for insurance’ sake to be honest. They’ve only just added the driving part on to these guys’ yearly assessments.”

“Okay, gimme the details, I’ll see what I can do. Usual rates?”

“Seriously, if you can dig me out of this, you can ask for whatever you want? ”

“Don’t tempt me,” Greg said. “Get me a good bottle of single malt, and make sure it’s well past its silver anniversary.”

“Done. I’ll email you the details. I owe you one, Greg. Thanks.”

**0000000**

“Is this it?” Mycroft’s car had arrived outside a large warehouse on the outskirts of London.

“Yes, sir.” Anthea was busy tap-tapping a reply to an email on her phone. She glanced up and frowned. “Doesn’t look much, I have to agree.” 

The Chauffeur opened the door and Mycroft stepped out, surveying the anonymous building in front of him. Palmer & Partners Training Company was stencilled in a plain frosted font across the glass window beyond the concrete forecourt. There were vertical blinds obscuring the windows, making the place look like some anonymous facility that could be training anything from typists to assassins. 

“There’s no need for you to accompany me, my dear,” Mycroft said. “This is, after all, going to take all day.” 

“Tomorrow as well,” she said. “I’ll be in touch. The paperwork stated they provide refreshments but if things don’t come up to standard, text me and I shall come to your rescue. If I don’t hear from you, the car will be here at six. Unless you text me any earlier, of course.” 

Mycroft smiled in spite of himself. “Thank you, my dear. I appreciate your care of me. Now go. Perhaps you could give the Home Secretary a hard time in my absence.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” she said, her lips quirking in a small smile. “You must have something to look forward to.”

**0000000**

Greg paused as he reached for his raincoat. Not today. He lifted his leather jacket off its hanger and shrugged it on. Although he wanted to project a professional image, he also did not want to appear too formal. Underneath he wore a plain back shirt and his black chinos. He did not want suit and tie for this. The address on the outskirts of London was very low-key. Luke kept things simple, at least on the outside. Most people had no idea what went on behind the cream vertical blinds and the plain grey exterior paint of the large building on the edge of an industrial estate situated on an old airfield. 

If the place looked plain on the outside, then the inside was the polar opposite. The reception area was the epitome of comfortable corporate elegance, the muted pastel walls neutral and relaxing, peppered here and there with professional photographs of happily smiling staff and their accompanying certificates of excellence. A display cabinet sported a small collection of business awards, interspersed here and there with a few competition medals for advanced driving, archery, and various firearms competitions. Jurgen, one of the firearms instructors, had been a successful Biathlon competitor in his youth. Luke himself was a red belt in Karate, a 9th Dan. All of his team carried impressive qualifications, and Greg often found himself feeling slightly inadequate, despite having reached the exalted rank of DCI. 

To the right of the entrance, plush leather sofas and armchairs occupied an open plan area, and nearby, a self-service drinks dispenser offered high-end barista-style beverages, both hot and chilled. Newspapers and magazines scattered around on small tables were a calculated mix designed to appeal to a wide variety of people. Luke had once told Greg that he liked to observe which rags his clients chose to read, just to get a measure of them. 

A large reception desk occupied the space immediately to the left of the door, the domain of a small, immaculately-dressed Jamaican lady with dark hair piled high on her head. She smiled on seeing Greg and came out from behind the desk.

“Good morning, Chief Inspector,” Farria Fernley said warmly, closing the distance between them for a brief hug. Greg was happy to oblige. “Long time, no see, my dear,” she said. “How are you today?” 

“Never better, darlin’,” Greg replied, equally warm. “How’s yourself? Still wowing them with your tango?”

She chuckled, and released him, returning to her post. “Cheeky,” she said, but fondly. “Afraid I’ve not been dancing much lately. I lost my partner to a flamenco dancer from Seville last year.”

“That was careless,” Greg joked. “Can’t imagine why any partner of yours would want to go off and dance with anyone else. Crying shame. Some folks don’t appreciate what they’ve got.”

“Oh, it wasn’t much of a loss. He had two left feet anyway,” she said brightly. Greg grinned with her. Her humour was infectious. Farria was a petite 40-something, but what she lacked in inches, she made up for in attitude. Fiercely loyal, she had been Luke’s PA for over a decade and what she didn’t know about the business wasn’t worth knowing. She also looked after both staff and attendees alike with motherly care and a caustic wit. 

“So, is Luke in yet?” Greg asked.

“Half an hour ago. He asked you to meet him in the yard. When you’ve settled in and had a coffee, of course. You help yourself now, you know where things are.”

Greg nodded. “Unless you’ve redecorated since I was last here.” 

“No chance of that,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t forget to sign in for me,” she added, spinning the sign-in book toward him and offering a pen. She also handed over a locker key as he wrote the date, his name, his car registration number and his time of arrival. “The new lockers are to the left inside the staffroom. Lunch will be served in conference room three at one. That’s the one upstairs, on the left.”

“Thanks, Farria. You’re a star.” Greg made his way across the plush carpet and down the corridor to the right of where the reception desk was situated. 

The staff facilities were also comfortable and spacious. There were lockers, a kitchenette, and a relaxing area to sit and eat, with a similar drinks dispenser. Just as Greg was investigating the locker Ferria had assigned to him, the door opened and Luke appeared.

“There you are. Thanks for coming, Greg. I owe you one,” he said, extending a hand to shake. 

“S’okay, Luke, no big deal. Not like I was up to anything important this week. Besides, it’s good to brush up on my skills occasionally.”

“Yeah, well, it’s appreciated. So, there’s plenty of time. Clients won’t be arriving until ten thirty, then we have induction for the first half hour or so. Should be an easy couple of days, you’ll only have the one guy with you both days.” Luke paused, thoughtfully. “Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“Look, try to pass the guy, won’t you? I mean, unless he’s a total utter tit, in which case…”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry. What is it? Pressure from on high?”

“Something like that. It’s just...reputation, you know. 

Work your magic for me?”

“I’ll do my best, Luke. Stop worrying. By the time I’m finished with him, he’ll be giving 007 a run for his money.” Luke’s business ran on recommendation and repeat work from big clients. He wasn’t well known or important enough to be able to completely call the shots just yet. He couldn’t afford to turn away work or likewise fail anyone too important. Greg smiled his most reassuring smile. “Don’t fret, I’ll get him through.”

“Yeah, but I know you. You’re a copper. If the guy’s a complete menace, you won’t allow him on the road...”

Greg allowed his smile to develop into a wider grin. “Let’s hope he’s not a complete menace then.”

**0000000**

The petite woman who greeted him reminded him of Anthea in her own way. Her grandparents had most likely been Windrush Generation, he considered, given her obvious heritage. Neatly put together and assertive, Ms Fernley, PA to the Senior Partner, directed him to the coffee maker and the seats and asked him to please fill in the forms she was about to give him as comprehensively as possible. He made himself an Earl Grey (he was quietly impressed at the choice of drinks), then sat down and proceeded to dot the i’s and cross the t’s on the forms as efficiently as possible. 

While he was doing so, a large and somewhat loud man entered the room, elbowing his way through the door. He was burdened with an overstuffed briefcase, and juggled his phone in his left hand, into which he proceeded to give instructions to the hapless assistant on the other end. Mycroft immediately disliked him. 

A youngish woman arrived just as the man was being directed to the seats and the drinks and given his own set of forms. She was tall, willowy, and blond, a foil for the small dark-haired Ms Fernley. She walked into the room and Mycroft’s first impression was of a confidence contrary to her years. This one had obviously attended private school, had parents who were well off, and she, herself, was well paid, in the job no longer than perhaps three years...Home counties, by the look and the accent. She got herself a coffee, found herself a seat and crossed elegant legs, took out her phone and began to text, madly, ignoring for the moment the forms she had been handed. 

Two young men half his age arrived ten minutes later, accompanied by a young woman with a mass of flame-red hair, tight curls capping her head above a set of green eyes and a grin. The young men were loud and over-enthusiastic, as young men often seemed to be around young women, and Ms Fearnley waited patiently for them to pay attention before she handed over the forms. They got the same instructions that she had given to Mycroft, and pointed toward drinks and seats.

“Jesus, love,” one of the young men said. “What’s this, War and Bloody Peace?”

“Consent forms, medical disclosure, Health and Safety Procedures, course details and we require your contact information so we can send out your certificate. Black biro, block capitals please. If those forms are not completed, or illegible,” she added, “I’m afraid you won’t be allowed to attend the course, m’dear. If there is anything that is unclear to you, or anything you find difficulty in answering, do please come and talk to me about it.” 

On the stroke of ten thirty, having collected their forms, Ms Fearnley rose from behind her desk. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” she said politely, “if you would follow me.” She lead them upstairs to a conference room and opened the door. “Do go in and take a seat. Your instructors will be with you shortly. Pen and paper for notes are provided. Lunch will be served in the room across from this one at precisely 1.30pm. Do enjoy your morning.” Scattered thankyous followed her out. Mycroft hung back a little, letting the others position themselves first, and then took a seat on the side near the door and toward the back, slightly apart from the rest. He allowed the younger ones to sit forward of him. It was a few more minutes, during which time the young men tried to impress the young women again—unsuccessfully as it happened—before the door opened and their instructors filed in. 

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Luke Palmer and I am Senior Partner at this assessment center, so welcome, it’s nice to see you all this morning.” _Ex-police,_ Mycroft thought, _forty-something, ambitious, likes being his own boss rather than taking orders_. “So, let’s get on. These lovely people behind me are your instructors and assessors for these next two days.” Palmer went on to introduce the five people standing behind him. There were two women in their mid-thirties, two men in their forties, from a variety of backgrounds—ex-army, RAF, and security services—Mycroft tuned out a little. He was not particularly interested in their instructors’ backstories and experience. After all, they had been passed to assess his abilities, and beyond that he rather felt as though he didn’t need to know any more. 

“And this is Greg Lestrade,” Luke Palmer was saying. Mycroft’s head snapped up.. “Inadvisable to piss him off, he’s a DCI with the Met in London,” Luke was saying jokily. “If you mess up, he might just arrest you.” There was a scatter of laughter from the others in the group.

“He can arrest me any time,” Mycroft heard the red-haired woman beside him murmur to the blond girl nearby. They had naturally gravitated toward each other, as women do. Sa _fety in numbers_ , Mycroft considered. _Ridiculous that it should still be needed these days…_

Greg was looking mildly embarrassed at the introduction, but he smiled good-naturedly, his whole face lighting up with it. Mycroft’s breath failed him. “Greg is a fully-qualified assessor, trained in advanced driving techniques and defensive driving.” Mycroft blinked. Greg was looking back at him a little strangely. “I think...yes, Mr Holmes,” Luke said. On hearing his name, Mycroft glanced at Luke. “You’re the only one who is with us for driver assessment, so you’ll be with Greg for the duration. So, ladies and gents, the next two days will follow a fairly tight schedule as we have a lot to pack in,” Luke continued. “We’re going to go through basic health and safety, fire drills, exits, that kind of thing for the next half hour, then we’ll break for a drink, and then your instructors will take over. They will go over what we expect of you over the next 48 hours. We’ll be running until five tonight, and we’ll reconvene here at 9am tomorrow. Right then, here we go…” Luke grabbed a small remote and thumbed a button. A screen came to life behind him, projecting the building plan. “Okay then, here’s what we do if our fire alarms go off…” 

Mycroft managed to avoid Greg during their drinks, making out he was on the phone, but after that, they were paired off with their assessors anyway and there was no more avoiding the inevitable. Greg was leaning on the doorframe, and Mycroft got a good clear look at the man. Dark trousers, black shirt, dark leather jacket...Mycroft’s heart rate increased. He took a deep breath. He cleared his throat. He raised his eyes to see dark brown ones staring back. 

“Mr Holmes, nice to see you again.” 

“I...this is...unexpected, I have to say.” Mycroft snapped his mouth shut. _Stuttering? Really?_ He needed to get a grip. “I was not aware you moonlighted as an assessor.”

“Hey, it’s not moonlighting. I’m a properly qualified and security-cleared staff member. This is freelance work, and I have approval from my bosses. There’s no cover up here, I’m legitimately on the books, and I pay my taxes.”

“My apologies,” Mycroft said hastily. “I had no intent to offend you.”

“No offence taken,” Greg replied genially. “I’m filling in really. Luke’s lost a team member and he asked me to step in because apparently, nobody else has driver training on their resume.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is. So, shall we get on?”

**0000000**

“So, defensive driving...” Greg began. “Mr Holmes…”

“Mycroft,” Mycroft interrupted. 

“Mycroft,” Greg repeated. “Exactly how much do you know about evasive driving techniques?”

"I have been properly trained in such techniques during the course of my career. I do not, however, get to exercise them very often.”

“Which on balance is probably not such a bad thing,” Greg said. “Okay then, perhaps we should go over the plan for the next two days first. We’ll be going over the do’s and don’t to begin with. If I tell you something you already know, indulge me, please?”

“I shall attempt to do so.”

“Thank you. Helps me so I don’t miss anything out. So…” Greg launched off into what he was going to teach. Mycroft did his best to listen, filing it all away. It was obvious the man knew his subject, intimately. He also had a passion for it, going by the enthusiasm. “We’ll cover things like route selection and journey planning," Greg explained. "I know you’re not necessarily driving yourself these days, but knowing the route and the alternatives is always good sense. I’ll talk a bit about contingency planning. It’s always good to have a back-up plan. Then we’ll go over evasive driving techniques, off-road driving, and hazard identification. I’ll go through rapid speed reduction techniques as well…” He paused. “I’m sure you’re familiar with embus and debus procedures?”

“Getting out of and into a vehicle when escorted by one’s close protection officers? Yes, of course.”

“Good, but I’ll still go over it again, as it is part of the course. I know you’re more likely to be the Principal than the person responsible for a Principal, but nevertheless…”

“It’s part of the course,” Mycroft parrotted. 

“Yeah, it is. Right then, journey planning...” 

Forty five minutes came and went, and Greg looked at his watch.

“There’s a few minutes until lunch, but after that, we’re going out back onto the driving track.” Greg stood and stretched. “Come on, let’s head upstairs to conference room three.” He held the door for Mycroft to pass through. “So what vehicles are you familiar with, Mycroft?” he asked as they made their way to the designated room.

“A few. I own a DB5…”

“You...own...a DB5? An honest-to-goodness 007 DB5?” Mycroft nodded. “Wow…” The response was awed. Clearly the man loved cars. _Something we have in common?_ “Perhaps you would like to come and see it sometime…?” _Oh, God, could I have sounded more cliched? Come up and see my etchings, Detective Inspector…_ Mycroft had to remind himself that Greg Lestrade was now Detective _Chief_ Inspector Lestrade. Somehow it did not make things better. 

“That would be wonderful. Love the DB10 myself,” Greg confessed. “Those Bond cars just keep getting better.”

“I have one of those too.” The words were out of Mycroft’s mouth before he could stop himself. _Damn the man…_

“Seriously? Wow...I mean, wow…” 

“I would be prepared to let you have a drive, if you would find that of interest?”

“Would I? Thank you. I’d love to.” Greg grinned again, something of a habit of his, and then mock-frowned. “I hope you’re not trying to bribe me, Mr Holmes?” he said, one eyebrow rising. 

“Perish the thought,” Mycroft said, rising to the bait. “If I wanted to bribe you, I am sure I could think of better offerings than a stint behind the wheel of a DB10.”

“Like what? I’m not sure I could think of anything better.” 

“Oh, I don’t know...a visit to their factory perhaps? An experience day on performance cars…” 

“You’d best be careful, Mr Holmes, or you’ll be on dangerous ground. I should warn you, I don’t take bribes.” 

“Then perhaps my invitation should wait until after you have...assessed me?” _Christ, now it sounds as if I am flirting with him..._

“Perhaps. Seriously, though, Mycroft, I would love to see your cars.” 

“Then it will be arranged, no matter the outcome of today. After all, I am sure the result of this...course, should it be unfavourable, will not impact upon my usefulness at work, nor will it prevent me from undertaking my duties…”

“Joking aside,” Greg said seriously, “you _will_ pass this course. That’s what I’m here for. I’ve never failed any of my students, because I teach them properly. So...let’s eat, relax, and then this afternoon we’ll find a car, I’ll drive a circuit first, then let you have a feel for the vehicle.” He opened the door on conference room three to find a generous buffet laid out, complete with drinks and place settings around the oval table. “I plan to take you through some driving techniques this afternoon, refresh your memory, then tomorrow, we’ll play out scenarios and you can respond to them behind the wheel. All the cars we’ll be using are dual control, like in any driver training, so don’t feel intimidated. I’ll be there all the time, and I will override things if I think you’re doing something that wouldn’t get you through the assessment. Okay with that?” 

“Perfectly,” Mycroft said.

“Good. Let’s eat.”

**0000000**

“Oh, you beauties,” Greg murmured on seeing the gleaming cars sitting on the tarmac out back. There was a good selection, which meant different handling techniques. More experience for his student. 

Mycroft surveyed the cars critically. He recognised the Mercedes S600 Pullman State limousine as being the model he was used to being ferried about in on a regular basis. Mycroft knew why it was there. It was able to withstand both bullets and explosives and the interior had the enviable ability to function as a bunker if necessary. Surprisingly a Rolls Royce Phantom VI limousine sat beside it, looking perhaps less sleek and more traditionally British. There was also a Range Rover, an Audi A8 (the L Security version), a Bentley Mulsanne, two BMWs—the E39 M5 and a 760Li High Security—and a heavily armoured thing with rugged tires and a jeep-like appearance that bore more than its fair share of military influence in the design department.

“That is the Conquest Knight XV,” Greg said, observing where Mycroft’s gaze was aimed. “Six tons of armoured luxury and it sounds like something from a superhero comic. I know it’s a bit OTT but we teach people how to drive everything here. These are only a few of the fleet.” He gestured across the large tarmaced yard to low buildings along one side. “He’s got a few others in there. These will do for the purposes of this assessment as they’re all dual control. I want you to drive all of them.” 

“It seems a lot of investment for mere training.”

“Yeah, well, he has more that he hires out to close protection teams in the UK as well. Liam, he’s the guy I’m standing in for today, is the driver on the team. Most of the guys and gals here are also close protection officers, bouncers, self defence instructors with their own careers. They do this part-time, like I do.”

“So where do we begin?”

“Well, pick any one you want.”

“Would you...care to choose? You did say you would give me a demonstration of driving first?” 

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I? So...the Audi or the 760,” Greg replied. 

“Choices, choices,” Mycroft murmured. 

“Come on, 007, let me show you something.” Greg headed for the Bimmer and opened the door for his passenger. 

“What on earth could you have in mind?” _Christ, my mouth is not in connection with my brain…_ Mycroft silently despaired. That could not be mistaken for anything other than flirting. _What will he think of me?_

Greg paused and glanced across the roof of the Bimmer, then he grinned, handsome features alight with it. “Oh,” he said casually, “I could show you a thing or two…Get in?” 

_Is he...flirting with me?_ Sadly, Mycroft knew he was out of his depth. He was inexperienced in that department. He got in with a sigh. He really had to take more care with what he allowed his tongue to utter, or he would be in deep water. He had no idea if the Inspector actually liked men.

“This thing,” Greg said when they were seated inside, “does not have armour added to it…”

“It isn’t armoured?”

“Not what I said,” Greg replied. “This car was _built to be armoured_. It isn’t a modification or an afterthought. This is an armoured car.”

“I see.” Mycroft watched as Greg ran a reverent hand over the dash, fingers stroking gently. _Is the man doing it deliberately?_

“Equipped with an assault alarm, there’s a fire extinguisher, and a closed vent system which protects against gas attack. Pumps clean air into the vehicle. Optional compartment to store two machine guns…” He grinned, pressed a switch and the vehicle purred into life. “It doesn’t roar. It’s more sophisticated. Seatbelt on?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Hang on to your hat. Gonna give you the ride of your life.” That garnered a raised eyebrow from his passenger. _Definitely doing this deliberately._ With that, Greg floored the accelerator. 

_This feels,_ Mycroft thought, _like being on a jet on take off._ The g-force was pressing him back into his seat. “Nought to sixty in a bit under six seconds,” Greg said, taking a corner of the course at nearly ninety mph. The car handled superbly, and Mycroft found himself watching Greg and not the road ahead. Large capable hands secure on the wheel, Greg's attention was focused completely on driving. His eyes were never still, gaze flicking from the windscreen ahead to momentarily glance into each mirror, assessing constantly for threat or hazard-fore, aft, port and starboard. There was a gleeful light in them though. The man was enjoying himself. _Oh, to have even half that focus trained on me,_ Mycroft considered.

The large training building had hidden a huge tarmac driving range behind it, on what looked like part of a disused airfield. Mycroft was flung sideways as Greg took the car rapidly around some bollards and hit the brakes. They screeched to a halt, inches from some straw bales. Belatedly, Mycroft grabbed the overhead handle to steady himself as Greg threw the car into reverse, simultaneously wrenching the wheel around so the car slewed around to face in the opposite direction, a complete 180 degree turn. He immediately floored the accelerator again and the car surged forward. He took them in a circle, then aimed the car at a series of bollards in a straight line up the course. The car slewed around the bollards, Greg turning the wheel with the unruffled ease of long practice, missing every one of the bollards as he did so. As Greg brought the car out of the other end of the obstacle course and brought it to an abrupt stop again, tires protesting, Mycroft remembered to breath. A heartbeat later, they were reversing around a corner and into a box marked out by cones. Stopping within inches of the back, Greg threw it immediately into forward gear again and accelerated away. 

When they hit the skid pan, Mycroft let out an undignified squeak as the car spun out of control, but Greg removed his foot from the gas pedal, and turned the wheel the opposite way, bringing the vehicle under control again in a textbook recovery. He drove away more sedately, mouth in the thin controlled line of a man trying not to laugh. 

“Very well, Gregory, I will allow your jest at my expense,” Mycroft said, exasperated.

“Sorry, Mycroft,” Greg said, trying to sound contrite. “But you did ask for a demo.”

“So it is my fault that you nearly killed us both?”

“Hey, my driving is very safe. You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

“Barely.”

“Liar. You enjoyed it.”

A short silence followed. “Oh, very well… You handled the car superbly well…”

“And so will you after today.”

“What?”

“Now it’s your turn…”

**0000000**

When Anthea arrived to pick up her boss at five precisely, he seemed to be somewhat preoccupied. 

“Did it go well, sir?”

“What? Oh, tolerably,” Mycroft replied, thoughtfully. He had thoroughly enjoyed his day, as it happened.

“How was your instructor?”

“Adequate,” Mycroft replied, still thoughtful. Gregory had been diligent in passing along his wisdom, taking Mycroft through those maneuvers he already knew, offering insight and improvement, then teaching him new moves, patient and plain in his explanations, encouraging as Mycroft put those new skills to the test. 

“And the food?”

“The offerings were acceptable,” he said, like a king assessing his tribute. 

“You didn’t text, so I figured it was at least adequate for your nutritional intake,” Anthea suggested.

“It was, yes…” Mycroft reflected that he had spent almost the whole time watching the inspector eat, and interact with everyone around him in a genial relaxed manner that Mycroft found himself envious of. It came naturally to someone like Greg Lestrade. He was gregarious and funny, quick witted and...easy on the eyes. _Very_ easy on the eyes. While Mycroft had no trouble with conversation, comfortable geniality had always evaded him. While he could chat amicably about politics, art, and music, he was stymied concerning sport, or beers, or popular culture. Mycroft loved old black and white movies, old-fashioned romance, elegance and style. Greg, it seemed, loved football, beer, pubs, punk rock, and musicals…and was a very good driver... He had also managed to get on well with the women in the group, instructors and clients alike… Jealousy flared... _but then, I have him to myself tomorrow,_ Mycroft thought.

Anthea took a good long look at her employer. He seemed distracted. Shrugging, she went back to her phone. No need to disrupt his thought processes...yet. She needed to discuss the outcome of her discussion with the Home Secretary, but it could wait, a little. 

**0000000**

“Morning, Mycroft,” Greg said when he arrived at the building the next day. It was 8am and he was tired, but not overly so. They had covered quite a lot the day before, and today would perhaps not take as long as he had initially thought. 

“Good morning, Gregory. I brought pastries, and I arrived a little early, so we could enjoy them.”

“Oh, wow, thanks. You take care now, or people will really think you’re trying to bribe me…”

“Perish the thought, Gregory. I believe I said that yesterday.”

“You did. We’ll just have to make sure nobody finds out.”

“What about Ms Fearnley?”

“Oh, Ferria’s fine, aren’t you? She won’t tell anyone.”

“That depends,” Ferria said slyly.

“On what?” Greg asked.

“On whether Mr Holmes brought enough pastries for three?”

**000000**

Greg got behind the wheel and the ignition came immediately to life. A few of the cars were equipped with keyless ignition, but not all. “What's your stopping distance at 90 mph?” 

“That rather depends.”

“on what?” Greg asked. “Seatbelt on?”

“Yes,” Mycroft confirmed, "and to answer your question, one of the deciding factors is the driver reaction time."

"Which is?"

"Anywhere between 0.67 of a second and 1.5 seconds." 

"Anything else affect the distance?"

"Of course; road surface, weather conditions, the condition of the vehicle's brakes and tires. The friction coefficient can decrease significantly if tires are less than new."

"Have you been reading up on this?" That garnered him a _look._ "Okay, so what would your standard stopping distance be at 90mph then? In general. Given optimum brakes and tires, road surface, weather conditions, and a modicum of driver alertness?" 

Mycroft suppressed a smile. "810 feet, or 270 yards, or 247 meters, equivalent to the length of 26 London buses. Always supposing that one does not employ rapid deceleration techniques that we discussed yesterday."

Greg blinked, and shook his head. He was dealing with a Holmes, after all. Perhaps he shouldn't have expected any less. “Right, this is going to get a little...rough…” Greg accelerated away with a screech of tires. “Skid pan time,” he said, and drove them over to it. They spent the next half hour attempting to drive out of a skid. When Mycroft managed it, Greg cheered. Mycroft blushed faintly at his achievement, and hoped Greg did not notice. 

**0000000**

“Okay, let’s do a timed lap,” Greg suggested. They were at the end of the afternoon, and there was not much left to do. “Up the drive there, around the bend, like I showed you, come to a halt. Reverse, turn one eighty, accelerate away. Turn to the right, stop, reverse into the box, accelerate away to the left, through the bollards, and stop at the line. Two seconds added for every cone knocked over, and every bollard hit. Okay?”

“You first,” Mycroft said. 

“Okay. Shall we get someone to time us?”

“Ferria, if she’s free. She seems impartial…”

“Okay, boys, ready when you are.” Ferria had jumped at the chance to time them. Greg accelerated away, leaving smoke in his wake. When he hit the line, Ferria whooped and waved the stopwatch at him, running over to show them. “1.406,” she announced. “Personal best, if memory serves.”

“Damn it, Liam managed it in 1.385…”

“My turn I believe,” Mycroft said smoothly.

The car accelerated away smoothly, and Mycroft was focused on the task in hand. Greg said nothing, gave no critique or instruction, just let him get on with it. They screeched to a halt with no faults, no bollards clipped, or cones knocked over…

“Oh, well done, Mycroft,” Ferria crowed, showing him the result. 

“1.384?” Greg said. “Bloody Hell, Myc. You are point zero zero one faster than Liam, and he’s an ex-rally driver…” Mycroft tried not to preen. 

“That goes on our wall of fame,” Ferria said. 

“Wall of fame?”

“Yeah, you know,” Greg said. “Like Top Gear…”

“I am not familiar…”

“Top Gear, the car show on tv. You know…?”

“No, I do not. I have never seen it.”

“What, never? Surely you know the one, with Clarkson, Hammond and May?”

“Sounds like a firm of solicitors…”

Greg laughed. “Couldn’t be further from the truth… No, it’s a tele program. It’s...never mind, it’s about cars, okay? They have a competition for celebs to drive an ordinary family saloon around the airfield they’re filming near, as fast as they can, and they record the distances.”

“I see, and you have a similar leaderboard? Is this part of the course then?”

“Nope, just fun. You completed the course ages ago…”

“I did?”

“Yes, but honestly, too good a chance to miss. I get the feeling you don’t ordinarily do things for fun, do you?”

“Not much, no.”

“Was this fun?”

“I’m not certain I would use that classification, but...yes, it was...for want of a better descriptor, _fun,_ as you put it. Besides, I won.”

Greg smiled. “Well, far as I’m concerned, you passed. With flying colours, I might add. I am now confident of your abilities. Your knowledge is good, and your technique is excellent. So...well done, mate. You passed.”

“Thank you, Gregory...So this is it, then? We’re done?”

“Yes, we are. You can go home. You won’t need to renew this for a few years.”

“That is...good, I suppose. Right, well...home…”

Greg caught up with Mycroft as he was donning his coat. Greg was wearing his leather jacket again, ready to go. 

“I wonder…” Mycroft began. 

“Sir?” Anthea appeared by the door. “Emergency meeting, sir. Sorry to hurry you. Brexit,” she said succinctly. 

“Yes, thank you, Anthea. A moment…” He turned back to Greg, held out a hand to shake. “Thank you too, Chief Inspector. It has been most...illuminating.”

“Yeah. Honestly, I’ve enjoyed it. You were a very quick study, but you knew all this already. Just needed polishing up a bit, making sure you were up to speed on all the salient points in the instruction manual. Brush up your skills a bit. That was all.” 

“Yes, thank you. I…” Mycroft found himself under scrutiny from those eyes again. Velvet brown, dark and inviting…He mentally shook himself. _Get your act together,_ he berated himself internally. _Acting like a moonstruck teenager will just not do._

“I wonder, are you free this weekend?”

“I’m free until Tuesday. I was only helping Luke out for these two days, otherwise I’m using up lieu time.”

“Oh, well, in that case...would…would you care to come to mine this weekend? Meet the boys?” Mycroft asked hopefully.

“Boys?”

“Affectionate term for my cars. As well as the DB5 and DB10, I also have an Audi Q8, and a Jaguar XJ220. You are welcome to try them all.” 

“What, really? Wow. Of course, I accept…” 

“Good. I’ll send a car?”

“Where do you live, Mycroft? Am I going to need my passport? Overnight bag? What?”

“I live an hour out of London. No passport required, unless they've recently set up a border crossing into Guildford. Although...should you wish to stay...you would be very welcome.”

“Oh, I couldn’t impose…”

“Why not? I would be happy to have you as my guest. Look, bring a bag anyway. Make your choice on the day perhaps?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll bring a bag, and possibly the aged whisky that my good mate Luke has promised me for bailing him out at such short notice. If he pays me before the weekend...”

“So, Friday then? After lunch? Let’s say two?”

“Two it is. I’ll be ready. Oh, hadn’t you better take my number?”

“I..um...I already have it. Sherlock passed it on to me.”

“Ah, he did, did he? Right then, I’ll see you Friday.”

Mycroft nodded, and moved away. Greg watched him get into his car and the door closed. 

“Greg? You ready for off then?” Greg turned to say goodbye to Luke. When he turned back, the car had gone. He sighed, thinking about visiting the Holmes home, and his cars, at the weekend. Excitement stirred in his belly. This weekend. Visiting Mycroft Holmes. Perhaps not that unexpectedly, cars were the last thing on his mind...


	2. Burning Rubber: The Sequel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WE WON A HUGO!!!! Okay so we probably ALL know by now, but really? This is amazing...
> 
> I am honoured to offer you, in the spirit of the Hugo winning awesomeness that is AO3, the sequel to Burning Rubber... 
> 
> Greg and Mycroft get together, Greg meets 'The Boys' and they encounter a spot of trouble along the way, all dealt with in Mycroft's own inimitable fashion.

“Sir?”

“Anthea?”

“I gather you have told your security detail they won’t be required this weekend?”

“I have. They won’t.”

“Sir, is that wise?”

“I shall be at home, and I have a guest, so I doubt very much that my team shall be needed.”

“A...guest? May one enquire who?”

“Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade is coming over to have a look at my car collection.”

“I see…” Anthea sounded as if she were seeing more than she should.

“Merely to...try them out. He is as much of a connoisseur of cars as I am. It will be nice to spend time with someone of like mind…”

“Very well, sir. At least I won’t have to perform background security checks on him.”

Mycroft smiled. “I have cleared my schedule until monday. There are one or two matters outstanding but they can wait. Anything comes up, do try to put them off unless World War Three is imminent.”

It was Anthea’s turn to smile. “Does that include your brother, sir?”

“He’s too busy playing at parenting with young Rosamund Watson, wouldn’t you think?”

“Here’s hoping, sir. Have a good weekend.”

“I shall. Do make sure you take some time too. I am picking him up tomorrow at two. I will see you on Monday.”

**0000000**

The vehicle that arrived to pick Greg up that Friday afternoon, precisely on the dot of 2pm, was not, as he had expected, a black town car of the sort Mycroft usually travelled in. A sleek and very new Audi Q8 drew up by the kerb and Mycroft himself got out, wearing what could only be described as driving gear. He was about as casual as a man such as Mycroft Holmes could get, Greg supposed, if the dark jacket and cream linen trousers were anything to go by. He was also sporting driving gloves and sunglasses, and he removed the latter as he crossed the path and rang Greg’s doorbell. 

Greg had been watching a little nervously from his window, his day having already gone pear-shaped from the moment he’d awoken. He was glad his flat looked out over the street, so he could see Mycroft approach. He had already decided that instead of buzzing him in, he would go open the main door himself. 

He’d been out all morning, having gone into work to use the showers because his boiler was seemingly on the blink, and he’d got back with less than an hour to spare. Despite the fact that not having any hot water at home gave him a reason to stay over with Mycroft this weekend, he still felt like a teen on his first date, not a mature man in his fifties awaiting the man who had invited him over for the weekend to see his car collection. _Car collection,_ Greg thought. _Bloody Hell, most people I know can only afford to collect beer mats…_

He had given less thought to his choice of clothing than he’d wanted to, given the lack of time. Of course he hadn’t organised everything the previous night, like his ex-wife would have done. He had thought that he would have plenty of time that morning and left the job so he would have something to fill his time and not be sitting twiddling his thumbs and getting nervous… Much good that had done him. He’d thrown together his best trousers and a couple of smart shirts, and a decent pair of jeans, packing everything in his worn overnight bag without much thought, remembering to add some underwear. His washbag and a pair of loafers got crammed in alongside a towel and his cotton dressing gown. God forbid he needed to track down the hall to the bathroom at 2am in nothing but his boxers… When he’d been in his twenties, he thought with a rueful smile, he would have tracked down a hall to the bathroom naked, but not any more. Too old for that now. He’d had the forethought to have the things he had been wearing for Mycroft’s training session laundered and ironed though, because, unless his eyes were deceiving him, Mycroft had been rather taken with that ensemble. He made sure to pick out his leather jacket again, as well as his waterproof. He had no idea what Mycroft would plan for their weekend, if he stayed, and British weather being what it was, he wanted to be prepared. 

As he left his flat, the opposite door opened and his neighbour, Mrs Naylor, waylaid him. “Sorry to bother you, Greg, I meant to tell you when you got back. I let in the repairman this morning, after you’d left. He said your boiler had broken? Gave his ID from Hawkins plumbers?”

“Oh yes, Mrs N. Thanks.” _That was quick,_ he thought. “Sorry, didn’t know he was coming today.” She nodded and smiled and murmured something about not minding and how you never knew what these people were doing these days, telling you one thing and doing another, and not to worry, anytime, before disappearing and leaving him to answer the door. Greg paused, wondering. He’d only called that morning and Mr Hawkins had told him he wouldn’t be able to do the job until after the weekend. Probably had a cancellation. Which meant he didn’t have to stay at Mycroft’s if he decided against it. He wasn’t sure whether the sudden removal of the excuse to stay was welcome or not. 

He went to answer the buzzer, raking a hand through his hair again, fumbling the lock and opening the door on his guest. “Mycroft, come in a minute,” he invited, smiling. 

“Good afternoon, Gregory. I hope I find you well?” The man followed Greg to his flat and stepped carefully over the threshold, glanced about him discreetly, taking in the plain masculine decor of the place. Greg had tidied, vacuumed, and dusted his flat carefully, clearing away dirty laundry, tidying magazines and generally making sure it looked spotless. He had a feeling Mycroft appreciated spotless. At least the heating engineer hadn’t left a mess.

“Oh, yes, thanks. Very well. Yourself?” Greg lead the way into the living room. 

“Tolerably well, thank you. I am afraid I had a rather taxing week, but I have to confess, I am most probably looking forward to this weekend a little more as a result.” He spotted Greg’s overnight bag and smiled. “Am I to understand that you have decided to take me up on my offer? Or are you still reserving your decision until later?”

“I...um...well…” Greg puffed out his cheeks on an exhale and shrugged. “Honestly, I hadn’t decided, but...well, my boiler had broken, so I figured it was a good thing I wasn’t saying home, but apparently it’s been repaired now, so...no longer really need to beg showers off anybody else, like the pathetic boiler-less man I was. However, I’m still nine tenths leaning toward accepting your hospitality, even if I don’t have a good reason...but...I just don’t want to presume on your good nature. Still, seems a bit daft to come so far just to go home a few hours later.”

“Seriously, Gregory, you would not be presuming, and...surely my invitation is good reason enough?”

“Shit, sorry, yes, that was not a good thing to say. I didn’t mean to imply it wasn’t...it’s just…”

Mycroft smiled. “I’m sorry, Gregory, I was teasing you. I do understand. Sometimes, we need to justify things to ourselves, hm? So, shall we?” Greg grabbed his coats, his bag and a paper wrapped bottle from the table, made sure he had his wallet and keys, and they exited the flat. 

“Something you will learn about me is that I never make offers I do not intend to fulfill,” Mycroft said as they walked to the car, “nor promises I do not intend to keep. I never make idle threats either. I am afraid I often say things I do not mean, but I reserve those for my working life, and then only in the course of diplomacy…”

“Which as we all know is the fine art of telling people to go to Hell and making them look forward to the trip,” Greg said, his smile sardonic. He was pleased to see Mycroft smile back, albeit a small one. 

“All things considered, I live alone,” Mycroft went on, “and sometimes, it is nice to simply have a visitor who appreciates the same things I do. All I offer is congenial company, the experience of driving vehicles of a type that you obviously appreciate, with a spot of good food and drink to top it off…” He paused, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “I wonder...would you think it terribly silly of me to suggest a small road trip tomorrow...assuming you do stay, of course?”

“Road trip? Where did you have in mind?”

“Oh, not far. I rather thought you might enjoy a drive out into the country and a picnic? Or a pub lunch if you prefer. There are one or two very good gastro-pubs in the area. I know of at least one micro-brewery with a very well-recommended ale. Your choice.”

“Oh...well...given the choice...I think the picnic sounds great actually. Just you and me...” 

“You do? You do. Well then, I shall have Mrs Harris make us something.”

“Mrs Harris?”

“My housekeeper. Don't worry, she doesn’t live in. She does my cooking and cleaning when I am at home.” 

Greg nodded and smiled. Interesting that Mycroft had told him not to worry that the lady didn’t live there. He wondered. Perhaps indicating that they wouldn’t be disturbed overnight...The fact he had also intimated that Greg would have the opportunity to get to know him better. He filed those thoughts away for later. 

“Audi Q8, hm?” Greg said, throwing his jacket, waterproof and bag in the boot. He also cradled the paper-wrapped bottle of Talisker with care. Luke had made good on his promise and delivered well before the weekend.

“I am afraid this was an indulgence,” Mycroft replied, stroking the bonnet of the vehicle. “I rather like Audis and I didn’t own one, so...when I heard about this model, I decided to invest. Galaxy Blue, a 23-speaker Bang and Olufsen sound system, touchscreen and voice controls, all-wheel drive, mild-hybrid engine…”

“23 speakers? Seriously?”

“Of course.” Mycroft looked mildly affronted that one could suggest anything less. “I like to listen to Radio 4 and Classic FM on the way home. Seriously, Gregory, I tell you the vehicle’s finer points and all you home in on is the sound system?” 

“Well, I mean, 23 speakers? 23? A bit OTT, hm?”

Mycroft shrugged. “They came as standard.”

“Standard, hm? So, nought to 60 in…?”

“A little under six seconds.”

“Nice.”

“Not that we ever get to do that on the M25… Shall we?” Mycroft opened the passenger door for Greg and went back around to the driver’s side. The upholstery on the interior was a luxuriantly elegant grey leather. Greg settled into his seat with indulgent pleasure. 

**0000000**

“Targets are on the move…” The occupants of a white van parked down the street were arguing about the best course of action. “Come on, don’t hang around…track it...” one of them ordered.

“Look, I don’t tell you how to do your job, so don’t presume to tell me mine,” came the testy reply. 

“Alright, keep your hair on.”

“I won’t lose him, I know my job.” 

“See you don’t or the boss will have all our hides.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“Why not? We didn’t bank on him being away this weekend.”

“Look, he’ll be back. He’s only taken his overnight.”

The third one sighed. “Then it’ll keep,” he said, calmly. “Get Blondy to run the plates, and then inform the boss…”

**0000000**

They drove for the best part of an hour into green countryside heavy with early summer foliage. The fields were peppered with fluffy sheep and sleek horses, and the hedgerows sped past.

“Now there’s a vehicle I haven’t had the pleasure of riding for years…”

Mycroft looked around. “To what do you refer, Gregory? I wasn’t aware of anything passing us.”

“Horses, in the fields. Not exactly a vehicle…”

“You ride?”

“Used to. Not been in the saddle for a long time though.”

“One never forgets. I was unaware that you knew how.” 

“My uncle used to have a small farm in the west country, always went for holidays there when I was a nipper. The cousins all had ponies, and I was always dragged into joining them. They taught me how to ride...Well, more like teaching me to fall, to be honest. I was like a sack of spuds in the saddle to begin with but they eventually taught me how to stay on, and I loved it.”

“Well,” Mycroft said, thoughtfully. “We shall have to remedy the lack. My neighbour lets me ride out on his hunters. If you wish, we could take a hack around the boundaries. There are some reasonable tracks to follow.”

“I’ve no riding gear though.”

“Easily remedied. I am sure there will be a hard hat you can borrow, and you could get away with jeans and a sweater. Shoes though...What size feet are you?”

“Ten.”

“Larger than me then. I wonder, Johnny’s feet maybe larger, but thick socks can take up the slack.”

“Johnny?”

“My neighbour, the farmer.”

“Ah. Well, if you can arrange it, I’m game. Might need a day or two to recover after though. Did tell you it was a long time since.”

“I can provide a hot bath post-ride,” Mycroft suggested with a smile. “That ought to go some way to mitigating the effects.”

Greg chuckled. “Might be getting too old for horses…”

“Pish, one is never too old for a good ride.”

Greg blinked, and risked a sideways glance at his companion, but Mycroft seemed oblivious to the double entendre. Had that been anybody else, Greg might have wondered if they were flirting, but this was Mycroft Holmes, and he couldn’t be sure. Innuendo was hardly to be expected of someone like Mycroft, after all. 

It felt like no time at all that they were turning into a drive that lead to a modest house nestled in manicured gardens and surrounded by a screen of oaks. They pulled up in front of the main door, a thick structure studded with medieval-looking nails, surrounded by a sturdy stone portico incorporated with carved wooden posts. The windows were geometric patterns of intricate mullioned glass. Ivy grew up the wall and hollyhocks grew in front of the windows.

“Oh, wow, Mycroft. You live here?”

“I do. Well, I come here when I can. I have a property in Kensington for when I need to access Whitehall. More convenient. However, I do love this place.” He stared about him fondly. “This is _my_ retreat.” 

“Beautiful,” Greg complemented. Mycroft smiled with quiet pride. “It looks medieval…”

“Don’t let appearances fool you. The property isn’t very old, less than a hundred and fifty years. Arts and Crafts Movement. Are you familiar with William Morris, Edward Burne-Jones, Dante Gabriel Rossetti and their ilk?”

“Some. The ex- liked it. Very romantic stuff as I recall.”

“The house is of that school. Brick and stone and all irregular little spaces; reading nooks, dressing rooms, big stone fireplaces, and large airy bedrooms...I quite fell in love with the place, as you’ll see.” Mycroft opened the door and got out, feet crunching on gravel. “The air here is lighter, fresher…” He took a breath and sighed. “Much nicer.”

Greg followed him out and took a breath as well, feeling it expanding his lungs with the scents of grass, hay, wild flowers and...roses. “I can smell roses.”

“There is a formal rose garden on the other side.”

“I adore roses. Grandad used to grow some beauties.”

“Then I shall show you later. Do come in.” 

Greg shouldered his bag and followed as Mycroft lead the way into a hallway panelled in light oak, lovingly carved with linen-fold and tudor roses, interspersed with paintings of family portraits and pastoral landscapes. It’s another world. _It’s Mycroft’s world_ , Greg thought, _and I am being allowed to see it all_. It felt special, intimate, and then Greg told himself not to be so daft. He likely won’t have been the first to see all this, and doubtless he wouldn’t be the last.

“Leave your coats and bag in the hall. We can retrieve them later,” Mycroft instructed. Greg did as he was bid and followed Mycroft further into the house. “So, refreshment? Or would you like to meet _the boys_ now?”

“ _The boys_ as in…?”

“My vehicles, Gregory. Who else did you think I meant?”

“Oh, I dunno. Maybe you have house elves or something…”

“House elves?”

“Mm-hm, those little servant elves from the Harry Potter books…”

“I know what house elves are, Gregory.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know that you knew? You had no idea what Top Gear was.”

“That is a television program, Gregory. I rarely watch anything other than news, debates, and music. However, I do read, and Ms Rowling’s books are perfect for reading to younger children.”

“Younger children? I didn’t know you had kids….”

“I don’t, but my cousin on my mother’s side has two, a girl of ten and a boy of twelve. Ariadne and Wistan are very gifted children, insightful and curious. The books always made perfect presents but I obviously had to read them first to make sure of their suitability. I found them tolerably good tales. So, yes, I do know what house elves are, but alas, I am afraid I have never found one to entice to be my servant.” 

“Go on then, which House are you?”

“House?”

“Yeah, which house would you have been sorted into? You can’t tell me that a ten year old girl into Harry Potter didn’t immediately get Uncle Mycroft on-line doing all the tests on the Potter website.”

Mycroft fought a smile, and did not quite win. “I am a Ravenclaw, I believe,” he admitted. “You are perfectly correct. Ariadne insisted the last time I visited that I be inducted into her on-line game, or rather _sorted_ , as one should say.”

Greg laughed. “Ravenclaw? Seriously? I would have guessed you to be a Slitherin at least.”

“Heaven forfend. I value intellect over ambition, despite the lofty heights I have reached, career-wise. After all, I operate in the wings, as it were. I do not take center stage. I leave that to those with more ambition than I. However, While I admit employing more than a little cunning and resourcefulness in my time, Ravenclaw House prizes learning, wisdom, and wit.” Mycroft opened the door into a spacious kitchen and lead Greg across to the back door. “I am to suppose you are a Gryffindor?” he asked.

“Actually, I’m a Hufflepuff,” Greg admitted, diffidently.

Mycroft smiled. “Well, well. Of course. Obvious when you consider it. Hufflepuffs are hard workers, full of dedication, patience, loyalty, and fair play. I must introduce you to Ariadne. I think you two would get along famously…Here we are.” They had emerged into a large garage attached to the back of the house. Arrayed before them were Mycroft’s _boys_ ; a classic DB5, in silver, and a black BD10, gleaming in the glow from the bulkhead lights. Beside them sat two Jaguars. A green XJ220 sat beside a much older model which quite escaped Greg’s memory, but he was captivated by the 220.

“That...is beautiful,” Greg said, awed. 

“I had a complete body respray done when I bought him a couple of years ago. British Racing Green. Somewhat unique, I have to say. I don’t know whether it has enhanced his value or devalued it, but somehow I cannot bring myself to care. The green is...classic, quintessentially British.”

“Gorgeous.” 

“I am sure he appreciates the sentiment.” There was a smile in Mycroft’s voice. 

“So what’s the other one?” Greg asked. “The one behind the 220?”

“Ah. That one is a 1949 XK120. The year before they stopped making handbuilt models and went over to factory produced parts. This particular one is a two seater drophead coupe. It cuts quite the dash.”

“Bet it does,” Greg agreed. “Perfect for a picnic? Or is this one a stay at home?”

“Oh no, I take them all out for regular spins. They are all perfectly roadworthy, taxed and insured, Inspector.” He added Greg’s title almost as a cheeky afterthought

“In which case,” Greg suggested, “how about we take him out tomorrow?”

Their evening was spent companionably enough, listening to jazz and blues. A comment concerning Charlie Parker had sparked it, and Mycroft had seized the opportunity to introduce Greg to his music collection. They retired early, and Greg spent a comfortable, if a little restless, night, waking on an elusive dream of Mycroft in shirtsleeves, most of which escaped his memory. 

Breakfast was a full English with sausages, bacon, eggs and tomatoes, served up with a smile by forty-something mother-of-three, Mycroft’s Housekeeper, Mrs Erica Harris. Ricky was lovely, capable and cheerful, a breath of fresh air in Mycroft’s otherwise stuffy life. 

She went about making a thermos of tea and some sandwiches, cakes and biscuits, packing it all away in a hamper, before puttering around doing her regular cleaning while her employer and his guest got themselves ready. 

“So, which one would you fancy to take out today?” Mycroft asked. 

Greg took a breath. “I do fancy the DB5 but...honestly, I’ve always envied Daniel Craig…”

“Then the DB10 it is then. It is a warm day, and the ten's air conditioning is much better suited. I thought we might head into the countryside. Find a spot for our picnic lunch, end up at a gastro pub for dinner?”

“Sounds good to me. Just let me get my shoes on and I’m your man…” 

“Come along then, 007, or M will get rather testy at the delay…” 

Greg watched Mycroft’s departure down the hall with surprise. The man had a sense of humour after all. 

**000000000**

The countryside around Mycroft’s house was lovely, Greg had to admit. It was good to get out of London and breathe cleaner air for a while. They headed toward Windsor, had their picnic lunch in the Great Park, in an area Greg was convinced was probably off limits to anyone else, but Mycroft seemed to be able to drive where he wanted.

“A perk of working for...the people I work for,” he said, enigmatically. “I am allowed to enjoy certain...rights and privileges normally reserved for their majesties.”

“Thank you for including me in this then,” Greg said. “Honestly, this is...a really nice weekend.”

“I am glad you are enjoying it, Greg.”

“You called me Greg.”

Mycroft gave him a perplexed frown. “Was I not supposed…?”

“No, it’s fine. Just...if you use my first name at all, you usually call me Gregory, like my mum did when I was naughty.” 

“Ah. So should I reserve that epithet for when you are naughty then, Gregory?” he said, innocently. 

“Depends…”

“On?”

“On whether you want me to be naughty, Myc’.”

Mycroft blinked. “Nobody has ever called me Myc’ before,” he said, evading Greg’s attempt at flirting. “Normally, I would insist they struggle to the end of the name I was given...but...I find I rather like it when you say it.”

“Do you?” Mycroft’s only reply was a nod and a faint blush. “So...Myc’. I could be tempted to say that a lot, you know.”

“You could?”

“Oh, yes. I could. You know...I would like to ask you something. Hope it isn’t unwelcome...but…” he sucked in a breath. “it’s...personal.”

“Go ahead. Ask away. Whether you receive an answer through...”

“Exactly why did you invite me over, aside from sharing your lovely cars with me, that is?”

Mycroft threw him a look. A number of emotions seemed to chase their way over his face before settling. “I don’t truly know,” he said honestly. “I am not...practiced, in either relationships or dating…” He smiled sadly. “Few have ever wanted to spend too much time in my company. Those who did…are long gone.” He took a deep breath, eyes focusing elsewhere for a moment. “You, though...you may be one of the few. We seem to have far more in common than I thought. We like the same music and seemingly the same cars, and horses, which I admit I had not anticipated…”

“And food,” Greg said, cheerfully biting into a piece of cake.

“Food too,” Mycroft admitted with a shy smile. “And I wondered...perhaps I allowed myself to indulge. The whims of a rather lonely man, perhaps.”

“You’re lonely?”

“Oh, I don’t lack for sycophants and hangers on. I don’t lack for _family,_ either.” He nearly spit the word out. “Neither do I lack for _acquaintances._ I can hold a dinner party and invite congenial company anytime I choose…but...it lacks a certain...depth.”

“You and Sherlock, you’re really more alike than I think you want to acknowledge,” Greg observed. “You don’t make friends easily, do you? I mean, you don’t get close to anyone. Sentiment. Dangerous, isn’t it?”

“Caring is not an advantage.”

“Nope, I agree. It’s debilitating, sometimes. We put ourselves last, behind those we care about. If we’re lucky we get back what we put in, we find someone who supports and loves us in return, but...if we’re not lucky…” Greg sighed. “It’s a waste of time and a loss of self if we’re not careful. Certainly a loss of self esteem.”

“You sound, forgive me for saying this, as though you speak from experience.”

“Some, yeah. We were young when we married, the ex- and me. I think neither of us knew what being together was about really. Things got more bitter as the years went by though. As soon as the kids were old enough to stand on their own feet, they moved out and Liz went on the hunt for someone else.”

“I was not aware you had children.”

“We had them when we were barely more than kids ourselves. I became a dad at 25. Ellie’s thirty, living in Newcastle, married an accountant. Jo is 28, a copper in Manchester. He’s a DS, in Serious Crimes, like his old man.” Greg sounded proud. “They were the best thing I ever did.” 

“I suppose...Sherlock was my experience of parenting. I did not make a spectacularly good job of it.”

“Far as I can see, you were too young to really know what you were doing. You didn’t do a bad job, all things considered. The lad survived, after all.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you for your confidence,” he said, wryly, “but I remain to be convinced.” 

“I wouldn’t like the alternative, though, personally,” Greg said, stretching out on their picnic rug and folding his arms behind his head. “A life without human connection, without human care? Definitely not for me.” He stared at the passing clouds, fluffy white shapes he remembered showing to his daughter when she was little. They would lie back like this, side by side, and hunt for sheep and ships and dragons. There were always a lot of sheep. “Although…” Greg began, but his voice quickly died.

“Although?” Mycroft prompted.

Greg was quiet for a moment. “Past experience,” he said. “First time round I stuffed it up…”

“If I may offer an opinion, I gather it wasn’t completely your fault…”

“Well...maybe not, but...I didn’t help…”

Mycroft smiled. “Perhaps there was no help you could have offered. We live and learn,” he said. 

“Once bitten, twice shy?”

“The burnt child fears the fire,” Mycroft said. “However, although burnt, you do not fear risking another fire yourself?”

“Not with the right person. Romantic it may be, but I want to care for someone, and be cared for in return. You know, I never felt loved… or cared for...or important, really. My kids loved me, with that unconditional love you give freely when you’re small. But a partner…? I don’t think she really did love me, deep down. She probably thought she did, once, but she was never there… You know when you are loved, right? It shows in how that person treats you.”

“It is supposed to, in my limited experience, yes.” 

“Mycroft...you never been loved? I mean other than by your parents.”

“Oh, yes. I was. Once. By someone other than my family, yes.”

“Tell me about it?”

“I have never wanted to share it,” Mycroft said plainly.

“Then you don’t have to.” 

“I know, and that is why I shall.”

“Only if you feel able to though. No pressure.” Mycroft nodded. 

“We were at university. Roddy was short and blond, rough and ready. He was on the Rugby team, and aiming to be a doctor. A surgeon, no less.”

“Sounds a bit like John Watson…”

“He was, I suppose, a little. He was quite the cleverest of his family. He was from Sunderland, with a working class background, the youngest son, but the middle child of five. They had very little money but he was the classic case of a hard working student who appreciated everything he had. Whereas I was from the Home Counties and Harrow. I was born into a well-off family who could afford to send me to a private school. Roddy, on the other hand, came from less privileged roots. He was honest as the day is long, as they say. What you saw was what you got, and Roddy was not afraid to speak his mind. What he saw in me, I have no idea, but...we hit it off. We had a mutual appreciation of Jazz and not much else. I was studying politics and law, and aiming for a career in government. Somehow, we ended up sharing a flat in Oxford.”

He smiled a genuine smile of fond recollection. “Quite mad, he was, but he wasn’t reckless. He was funny, generous, quite unashamedly openly gay and proud of it. He taught me a lot, really. How to have fun, I suppose. When you said I don’t have fun, you are right. I do know how, though. At least, Roddy taught me that much. It’s just...I find I don't often want it.”

“That’s a bit sad, Myc.”

“I know, but fun on one’s own is rather hollow. Odd, considering how short a time we were together, he taught me so much. I was lucky, I suppose, although... I was much younger than Roddy. He was 20 to my 17. I had passed GCEs two years early and graduated early.”

“Jesus, Myc. Two years?”

“I do have a high IQ, and it was a challenge when I was in prep school. I ripped through the lessons so fast.” Mycroft said this without a trace of smugness. It was simply fact to him. “I was allowed to enter Harrow a year early. Exceptional circumstances.” 

“You’re telling me. I barely passed my minimum to get into Hendon.”

“And yet, you did.”

“Did you love each other?”

“Oh, yes, we did. I recall my 18th birthday was the best one I can remember. I had come of age. I was legal. Roddy and I went for dinner, and we were due to go home so my family could celebrate with me. I have to admit I was a little apprehensive. Sherlock was being difficult, he was being bullied at school, and he was not happy about my absences at University. My parents...well...I had no idea how they would take me bringing my boyfriend home. I remember Roddy bought me gold cufflinks shaped like saxophones, and we drank brandy on the balcony of our flat and watched the moon rise. We went to bed and made love, and I revelled in it all…Good memories...but that’s all they are. I took him home, introduced him to my family, and they...tolerated him. He even withstood Sherlock’s ranting. But by the end of the year he was dead…”

“Dead?” Greg was shocked. “What happened?”

“He went home to his family in December. We went our separate ways for Christmas, he to his family, I to mine. Mummy always insisted we get together, and while they were supportive of my coming out to them, they were not overly enthusiastic. Roddy and I planned to call each other on Christmas Day but when I tried to ring, nobody answered. I figured they had gone out for the day. Families do. We visit relatives, we go for christmas dinner…When it got to evening and I tried again, there was still no answer.” 

“What happened?”

“Roddy’s youngest sister called me in the morning. Roddy was taken ill that afternoon. Heart attack. He was declared dead at the hospital. They couldn’t revive him. It was later found that he had an undiagnosed heart condition. Apparently it is common enough.” 

“Oh, Myc. I am so sorry. At Christmas too. Bloody Hell, that’s hard.”

“I came back to Oxford without him, and our shared life was over. The flat was...too big without him. I handed his things back to his family and I moved out.” 

“Mycroft...that’s just…that’s really horrible.”

“Oh, worry not, Greg. We loved each other, and there was nothing left unsaid between us. I made peace with it long ago. I became closed off for rather a long time; there was the business with Eurus, Uncle Rudy, Sherlock, my own career...I was...kept busy.”

“We all have our griefs, it seems,” Greg said gently. “The older we grow, the more loss we experience. However, it just goes to prove that life is too short not to enjoy ourselves and we have to take our chances while we can. And I would like to take a chance with you, Mycroft, if that’s what you want too?”

“I find I would very much like that, Greg, although I fear I may not be worth your efforts.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“I am a difficult man to live with, never mind love… It might take a while…”

“Good job I’m a patient man then.”

“Not a surprise really,” Mycroft said, clearing away the picnic stuff. “You are a Hufflepuff after all.”

Their drive to the pub Mycroft had in mind followed some country ways, the scenery unfolding prettily around them. Idyllic, Greg thought, flicking a glance into the wing mirror. He paused, studying the cars following them. A black Audi was tucked in about three cars back. He could have sworn that one had been behind them as they left Windsor. He waited a while, risking a glance back after Mycroft had taken a couple more turns. There it was, still there. 

“Myc,” he said casually. “Don’t want to worry you, but didn’t you say your security detail are not with us today?”

“That is correct. They are not. Why?”

“Because I think we picked up a tail. Four cars back, black Audi, can’t see how many occupants though. He's overtaking a bit aggressively. Moving closer…"

Mycroft checked his mirror. “I see it. The next question is, is he really tailing us?”

“Been with us since Windsor. Might be a coincidence…”

“The universe is rarely so lazy, as I like pointing out to my brother now and again.”

“If we were in town we could circle round and check…”

“But we are not in a town yet, so we shall have to improvise.” The road straightened and it was a natural move to put on a bit of speed so Mycroft accelerated a little, not enough to reveal they knew about the tail but enough to look natural. 

“Where’s your phone…?” Greg suggested. He reached forward to access the glove box, but as he opened it, he saw the Sig Sauer pistol that lay clipped into the drop-down glove box hatch. “Woah...Mycroft, you carry a gun in here?”

“I am not actually allowed to go anywhere without a weapon, in point of fact.” He sighed. “Why else do you think they make us take proficiency evaluations? I take it you know how to shoot, just in case it becomes necessary?”

“Yes, but...I’m not routinely armed…”

“Obviously you have passed the required level of competence. Besides, the person you are shooting at often doesn’t have time to ask for your proficiency certificate before he ducks…” 

Despite the tense situation, Greg chuckled. “True. So, we have a way of defending ourselves at least. So where is your phone…?” 

“Not required, I assure you. _Voice command protocol,_ ” Mycroft said clearly. 

“ _Voice command protocol active_ ,” said a neutral male voice from the display screen that lit up on the dash. “ _Please state name and passcode_.”

“Holmes, Alexander Mycroft Aubry, passcode Alpha-46-omega.” 

“ _Passcode accepted, Mr Holmes. Voice command protocol live_.”

“Telephone. Mallory, Anthea. Priority line one. Immediate.”

There was, obscurely, a dial tone as the call went through. Then Anthea answered, sounding tense. “Mr Holmes,” she said without preamble. “Status report.”

“I have reason to believe we are being followed, by a black Audi…”

“S-series,” Greg interrupted. 

“S-series, occupants unknown,” Mycroft added.

“I’ll get onto it.” The line went dead. 

“We have two options, and I have to make a choice in the next two miles,” Mycroft said, matter-of-factly.

“Which are?”

“If I keep driving along this road, it eventually turns into a single track, no passing places, no turning room. It will eventually peter out into a farmyard. If I take the next left, and continue to our destination, possibly endangering civilians if things turn nasty, there is a car park next to the pub, with more room to maneuver.”

“What’s beyond that?”

“More roads like this. About five miles to the nearest village.” 

“Don’t want to worry you, but he’s upped his game, he’s just overtaken two cars and is moving up. All that’s between them and us now is a Prius.” 

“A Prius? Hardly adequate protection,” Mycroft snarked. 

“Take the left. Accelerate away. You’ll soon see if he means business.”

“Mr Holmes?” Anthea was back.

“Receiving.”

“I’ve mobilised back-up, a helicopter is currently en route to your coordinates out of Brize Norton, but they’re still…” there was a brief pause, and Greg could imagine her checking her watch, “...five minutes away,” she confirmed. “We’ll do our best to hold them off then,” Mycroft said airily. 

There was a glint in the man’s eye, Greg was certain. “You’re enjoying this…” he muttered.

“I’m not unaware of the risk factor, Gregory, but this...this is what we trained for, is it not? Time to exercise my skills, I think. Anthea, my dear, you have us on GPS?”

“We have your location, sir. So does your back-up.”

“Good. Do you have oversight?”

“Yes, sir. I have your signal on screen. Do you need me to direct you anywhere?”

“I need a place I can turn this car around, if you get my drift…”

“Keep going, approximately one mile ahead, the road itself bears left, then right, then left again. The second left hand corner is very wide. There’s a farm driveway directly on the turn, on the opposite side, it should give you more room.”

“Understood. Stand by.” 

“Planning on pulling a J-turn?” Greg asked. Mycroft nodded. They had practiced plenty of those at the training center. Mycroft was particularly good at it. Mycroft increased their speed slightly, aware the Prius was dropping behind. Sooner or later, their tail would overtake and move up, unless he was biding his time. 

“600 meters, sir.” The road bent slightly to the left. The turns slowed them all down. “Five hundred… four...The road is clear, repeat, clear of traffic coming toward you. Intercept ETA two minutes twenty, sir. Good luck.”

As they approached the corner, several things became apparent at once. The pursuit car suddenly put on a burst of speed and overtook the Prius on the bend, to much blaring of a horn, as the smaller car was nearly run off the road. The Prius’ wavered, causing the Audi’s driver to swerve slightly to avoid being hit. It slowed their pursuers a little though, which added valuable seconds to their lead. 

“I think that confirms it,” Greg said, bracing himself. “Definitely not imagining that we’re the target…” It was also apparent that they would not have a big window to pull this off. 

The corner loomed. Mycroft accelerated straight across the corner, straight into the driveway, grasped the wheel firmly, and braked hard. He threw the car into reverse, and gunned the engine, sending it flying backwards in a spray of gravel. As he did so, he wrenched the wheel hard around, sending the back wheels into a slide and the car into a spin. The car whipped around in a 180 degree turn, ending up facing back the way they had come. Leveling out, Mycroft released the handbrake and threw the car into second gear, spinning the wheels as he floored the accelerator again and the car surged forward, narrowly missing the Audi. The whole maneuver took less time than it would have taken Greg to sneeze. They flew past the surprised occupants in their Prius, negotiated the bends, and in the mirror, right before he lost sight as the road turned, Greg saw the Audi struggle to turn, its less-experienced driver losing vital seconds as he ran over the kerbside and nearly into a hedge in his haste.

Mycroft put his foot down, putting even more distance between them, taking advantage of the obvious lack of capability where the Audi’s driver was concerned. Greg turned in his seat in time to see the Audi take the last corner clumsily wide, but it was probably the faster car, gaining on them easily. Two people leaned out of the windows, and gun muzzles were suddenly pointing in their direction.

“Oh, shit…” Greg muttered. “They’re armed…”

“At least this car is bullet proof…”

“Mr Holmes, you should have visual,” Anthea said, breaking across his observations. Ahead of them, cresting the trees like some vengeful black demon, a black stealth helicopter gunship rode up and over and came toward them. Greg gawped. It was like something out of a movie. They sped beneath the helicopter just as a rocket streaked from it toward their pursuers. There was a loud bang, and Mycroft drove their own vehicle around another corner and away.

“What are you doing? Where...Shouldn’t we stop?”

“Under no circumstances,” Mycroft said. “They have most likely disabled the car, and if anyone is left alive, they will be taken into custody. I will be informed. We are going to where we are safe…” 

“Oh, right…” Greg couldn’t quite keep the disappointment out of his voice. 

They drove in silence for a while, Greg trying to parse what had happened to destroy the day. “I suppose I’d be best going home?” Greg suggested. Mycroft turned to speak but was interrupted. 

“Sir? Mr Holmes?”

“Anthea. We are safe, enroute to the house.”

“Thank God...I mean, that’s good, sir. They’ve secured the scene. Initial reports are two men dead, one still alive. Secured for transport to military hospital. No others in evidence. The car is being secured. I’m running their photos through the databases as we speak.”

“Good, thank you, Anthea. Under the circumstances, recall my security detail, would you? Rendezvous at Blythbourne.”

“Already done, sir. I am currently assigning extra security to your home until we find out what is going on. Air support is with you all the way home, sir.” 

“Air support?”

“The helicopter is circling, keeping us in sight. If we run into any more trouble, they’ll be down on it in seconds.”

“Air support…” Greg murmured weakly. 

Mycroft sighed. “Of course,” he said, resigned. “This is what happens when you throw your lot in with me. I am sorry, Gregory, but Anthea is perfectly correct. Until we understand exactly what happened here, it would be wise for you to stay with me. At least until we can throw some light on this…”

“Right then, if that’s what you think is best…” 

Mycroft pulled off the road and into a layby and offered the keys over. “You are as competent as me behind the wheel, Gregory. Would you like to drive us home?”

“You’ll have to direct me, or tell the satnav to instruct me.” It did not pass Greg by that Mycroft had just complemented his abilities, albeit only behind the wheel of a car.

“I can...instruct you, Gregory.” And damn if that wasn’t the hottest thing he’d yet heard Mycroft utter. That little pause, a slight emphasis on the word _instruct_. Greg shivered, took the key, and they changed places. 

Adrenaline was running high, and Greg felt energised, fizzing with unspent energy. Mycroft sat there cool as a cucumber, as ever. As they hit the motorway home, Mycoft turned to his companion and smirked. “All my cars are registered as government vehicles, Gregory,” he said. 

“What?” Puzzled, Greg spared a glance at his passenger. 

“Their number plates are on the police database…” 

“Oh, so if they’re stolen, they can be traced?”

“Among other things,” Mycroft said, pointedly. “For instance, if one should find oneself having to...evade pursuers perhaps…Get home very quickly… Rendezvous with one’s security team.” 

“Oh...you mean…”

“Yes, Gregory. You can put him through his paces, if you like, without incurring the wrath of the local traffic division. In fact, I suggest we get home as fast as safely possible. Just try not to crash…”

“So, I can...do this?” Greg floored the pedal and the car increased speed. He spared a glance at the speedo to see the needle climbing. “Oh, my God, I am hitting 90 in a DB10…” 

Mycroft grinned. “Indulge,” he said. “He can do better than that.” He delighted in someone who obviously loved the same things he did. “What would be your favourite car, Gregory?”

“My fav? Not so sure…” The needle was swinging to 100mph and climbing. The motorway was blessedly quieter, but there were still plenty of vehicles around. No sirens sounded and no flashing lights appeared in the mirror though. “This beauty has to be one of them. I guess I just like cars…”

“I regret to inform you that we need the next junction…”

Greg heaved a sigh. “Okay…” He let his foot off the accelerator and the speed dropped. “That was exhilarating.” He grinned as the car dropped to more manageable speed. They were still in the fast lane though. “This is...a great car, Mycroft. Thanks for the opportunity.”

“Under difficult circumstances, I am afraid.”

“Who the fuck were they? Do you know? Who knew we would be out here today?”

“Nobody. That is what is worrying me.”

“Come on, someone must have known?”

“Gregory, did you tell anyone?” 

“Me? You can’t think that attack was for me...Bloody Hell…”

“Doubtless you have enemies.”

“I guess, a few, but…seriously?”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“I told Sal, Sally Donovan, my Sergeant, and that’s all. And even then I wasn’t specific. Figured it wasn’t something you’d want broadcast.”

“Have you noticed anything unusual in your home area? Vans, cars...anything? Anthea?” 

“Here, sir.”

“She’s listening?”

“Of course I am,” Anthea said tartly.

“I have not rescinded the voice control protocol yet,” Mycroft explained. “Our connection is still open. Anthea, can you give me pictures of the men in the car?”

“Certainly.” Moments later, six photos appeared on the screen. 

“Pull over for a moment and take a look,” Mycroft suggested, and Greg took the opportunity to pull off into a convenient layby. “Now, do you know them?” There were six photos, three obviously taken at the scene of the accident and in two of those, the men were obviously dead. Each photo had another below it, most likely the latest photos of each man, taken seemingly at long range. 

“No…” The first one rang no bells. “Not really…” The second one was familiar but...Greg shook his head. He could not think from where. The third image flicked up. “Bloody Hellfire…” He would know that face anywhere.

“Who is he?”

“Ricky Hardcastle, the little shit. He was probably the driver. He’s a known getaway driver but he’s never actually been caught before. Nothing sticks to him. They don't call him slippery for nothing.” The photo was of a dead man, his face mangled from the crash. Enough was there for Greg to make a positive ID, although the second photo of the man was easy to identify him with.

“Live by the sword…” Mycroft intoned. “Anthea, are you getting this?” 

“Yes, sir. I am currently pulling all cctv footage surrounding the Inspector’s apartment…”

“Good. Let us know when you have something.” 

“Sir, may I suggest we do a sweep of the Inspector’s flat?”

“Good idea.” Mycroft turned to Greg. “Let’s be getting on, hm?” His voice was warm.

“Okay, what are they going to do to my flat?”

“Sweep it for cameras and listening devices. Don’t worry. They are very discreet. You won’t know they’ve been. Gregory, have you had any workmen visit you? Anyone purporting to be from utility firms perhaps?”

“Actually...but no, I called them, it was arranged.” 

“What went wrong?”

“My boiler was on the blink this morning. I called a firm I know. Hold on a mo, though...my neighbour, Mrs Naylor, said she’d let someone in from the plumbers yesterday morning. I was at work, grabbing a shower, since mine was out of action. We often help each other out like that; she takes my post, I take hers, that kind of thing. She’s a bit of a dotty old dear, but she’s nice. By the time I came home this lunchtime, the boiler was fixed. I did wonder because the man I called, Barry Hawkins, told me he wouldn’t be able to get to it before next week. Mrs N said the guy had Hawkins ID though.”

“What was the firm’s full name?”

“Hawkins Plumbing and Heating, Islington. Barry Hawkins is your man. But not in that sense, I’ve been using him for years, I know him. Never been had up for anything. He’s kosher.”

“Anthea, please contact Mr Hawkins, find out if he’s despatched anyone yet to deal with the Inspector’s boiler, will you?”

“Yes, sir…”

“If he hasn’t then your man was an imposter.”

“You think this is about me?”

“It is looking that way.”

“Christ, Mycroft...if it is, I am so sorry…”

“Don’t be. It isn’t your fault.”

“Well, it is, really. Come on, I’ve got enemies, Mycroft.”

“We both work in an exacting environment that gives us both ample opportunities to accrue enemies. In that, I may have more than you…No, I think we’ll find someone usurped the repairman’s place, and bugged your flat. I think you were being watched, and when I picked you up, it threw to cat among the proverbial pigeons. I did not notice anyone tailing us yesterday from your address so perhaps they picked up where you were by other means. I think it might be wise to check in case you are carrying some kind of tracker…”

“Me?”

“Yes. Anthea, have someone on my security team fetch a sniffer with them, will you?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Sniffer?” Greg asked.

“It senses tracking devices, bugs, electronic...things.”

“Bloody Hell, you think they bugged me?”

“Quite possibly. Which case did you say you’d just wrapped up?”

“I shouldn’t discuss on-going cases, Mycroft.”

“I’m hardly your average gossip monger or journo, Gregory.”

Greg grinned, despite himself. “Being naughty, am I? You said you’d use my short name.”

Mycroft huffed a laugh. “Bad man.” His eyes flashed, dangerously. “Please, tell me the details.”

“Murder case, Edward Jackson, CEO of Jackson Bell PLC, an accounting firm, accused of murdering Patty Jackson, ne Philips, his wife of thirteen years. What?”

Because Mycroft’s expression had changed. “That name rings a bell. The company was on our radar last year, we thought they might be a money laundering operation for the Mafia.”

“Yeah? Well, the lawyer is bent as a nine bob note. Frank Leicester. We’ve got nothing on them, other than the wife obviously knew her attacker. It wouldn’t surprise me if Leicester is trying to get me discredited before the case comes to court. Any slur on me would throw it out. Jackson could disappear to Rio and we’d never get the bastard.”

“Anthea, access the Inspector’s bank account, please. Then do please deal with any unusually large amounts paid in since his last work payment.” 

“You think they’ll try to make out I’m on the take…” 

“Quite possibly. They probably took some documentation that would allow them access to your bank account and they probably have a pet policeman to check on insider details, to pass messages, run vehicle IDs and such. It seems to be the norm. There will be someone somewhere who has passed on information concerning you.”

“Nobody in my department would do that. Christ, I know them all. Some of them are wankers but none of them would be that cold…”

“Anthea, do please freeze the Inspector’s assets and set up another bank account with my personal banking for him, would you? Make sure the encryption is secure.”

“Certainly, sir.” 

“Does she do everything you ask for?”

“As long as it is a reasonable request, Inspector,” Anthea replied. “After all, as the ubiquitous catch-all in my contract states, ‘ _and any other reasonable request made by management_ ’, if it falls into that category, I am bound to do my duty...”

“She has a sense of humour, that girl,” Greg stage-whispered. 

“Indubitably,” Mycroft agreed. “I would not have employed her else.”

“So turns out it was him then,” Greg said, glancing at the file on his knee. Mycroft’s people had found tracking devices in Greg’s coat and jacket, plus plenty of evidence in his flat to know these folks had put him under surveillance. 

“It does look like the case is open and shut,” Mycroft agreed. “Leicester has confessed to sending people to put surveillance on you. He broke down under questioning.”

“Whose questioning?” Greg asked.

“Unfortunately, his attack on you involved me, and involving me, he encroached on National Security. So, he was interviewed by my people, and they do not take lightly to a common felon messing with things like that. I think he found he was way in over his head. Oh, and this throws Jackson’s case into question too. Things are now very much weighted against him.”

“Here’s hoping he gets sent down then.”

“The CPS will do their job, Greg, never fear.”

“So...we’re safe then?”

“Absolutely, although Anthea has suggested it would be a good idea for you to stay here, with me, while your flat is put back to rights and the security installed to keep you safe in future.” 

“You don’t have to do that, Myc.”

“Yes, I do. Don’t worry, it will not encroach on your privacy.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, Greg. Discreet surveillance on your property, and you, that is all. Something you can activate in case of emergency. I will not spy on you, Greg. That would be an unforgivable intrusion.”

“Okay, I’ll trust you. For now.” He thought of something. “How did they know about me phoning Hawkins? I mean, I only did it that morning. The boiler going wrong wasn’t them as well, was it?”

“Seems they were listening in with a long range mic. One must give credit where it is due, the listening equipment was up to snuff. Obviously someone knew their surveillance techniques well. One of the dead men in the car was ex- of the security services, specialised in such things, so he was probably the culprit.” Greg nodded. “That makes sense. 

“I think your boiler was opportune. They would have found some way to lure you away. After all, your neighbour didn’t know you’d called Hawkins. They could have pretended to be checking the electric connections. It wouldn’t matter. What would matter is access to your flat without you knowing, or if you found out, it would look like something plausible. After all, they were out to discredit you, not kill you.”

“So, how much did she find?”

“Three hundred thousand.”

Greg nearly choked. “How much?”

“Three hundred thousand pounds sterling.”

“Hang on, if they were out to discredit, why pull guns and pursue us?”

“Perhaps they realised they were rumbled. Run you off the road, put a bullet in you, and it looks like Mafia revenge. £300k in your account and you are posthumously damned, Jackson blames it on you and he’s home free. You arrested him, and he would say it was all trumped up because you owed the Mafia money, maybe he would even blame you as his wife’s lover, and murderer, because perhaps you were after the money to repay what you owed? When she wouldn’t agree...bang.”

“Neat.”

“Perhaps she found out what was going on and threatened to leave, or to report him. He killed her, or Leicester did. He seemed the colder of the two of them.” 

“So where did Leicester get that amount of cash then? He wasn’t that flush.”

“Siphoned from Jackson’s company, through an offshore account, most likely.”

“So what’s happened to it? Did Anthea remove it?”

“You recall I told Anthea to deal with your account and open a new one for you?”

“Yes?”

“I expect the details soon, with forms for you to sign, and you will have a brand new account with a new bank card.”

“Good, thanks.”

“The account is a secure one, and is currently unhackable.”

“Okay, that’s good.”

“Nobody will be able to access it unless by my department’s permission. If you are investigated in the future they will require a very good reason to see your financial records.”

“Why?”

“Because, you are now dating me, and with that go certain rights and privileges.”

“Oh-kay…Are we dating then? Is it official?”

Mycroft gave him an arch look. “Greg, even if we were not, which I hope we are, I would be happy to extend such ‘rights and privileges’ to you anyway. After so many years of putting up with my brother and myself, you perhaps deserve it.”

“So...how secure is it, really?”

“Literally no one may access them without good reason, and I would like to see them try. If anyone other than yourself tries, then it flags up. We will trace whoever it is, and deal with them.”

“Jesus… But what about credit, Myc? If I want to buy a new car or anything…”

“Unnecessary, really. I cannot imagine anything you would want to buy that would require credit…”

“Mycroft, I am not that well off.”

“Um...well, the 300k is still in your account.”

“But that’s evidence...isn’t it?”

“Not required as such. The case will not ride on their attempt to bribe you, so there is no need to return such...ill-gotten gains, which they most probably are. Anthea has left you with another dummy account which is clear, and has some money in it, in case you do require something as plebeian as a credit check. However, your wages will be transferred into your new account and the money is...well, yours, unless it makes you feel uncomfortable. ”

“You sure it isn’t evidence?”

“No. I thought it simpler to just...clean your records. Keep the money. It won’t appear on Jackson’s company records. Leicester made sure of it. Nobody but he knows he did it. He won’t be in a hurry to confess that one in court.”

“Christ. That’s...theft. Isn’t it?”

“Consider it a gift, perhaps. It was given to you, after all. It was to make you look guilty. The least you can do is enjoy it, and spite them. Call it justice if you like.”

“Then I’m going to donate at least part of it to charity.”

“Whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

“Well...they ain’t getting it back, that’s certain.” Greg paused. “So...you said...as far as you are concerned, we’re dating?”

“We are, are we not?”

“I...yes, I guess...that’s good...very good.” 

“So, where is our next date going to be?” Mycroft smiled.

“Well...Alexander Mycroft Aubry Holmes… is that really your name?”

“Mother and father were nothing if not creative.”

Greg grinned. “Okay, how about…” he thought carefully. “How about somewhere where there are no cars?”

“I believe that can be arranged,” Mycroft confirmed. “I hear the island of Sark is quite pretty…” 

**Author's Note:**

> un-beta-ed, so forgive mystakes, and please point 'em out to me. Enjoy.


End file.
